


Snoop

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-02-10
Updated: 2000-02-10
Packaged: 2018-11-11 02:03:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11138991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: A little vignette regarding what might have happened after Ray's landlady left Fraser alone in Ray's apartment during "Eclipse."





	Snoop

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

(Snoop)

 

 

This is what happens when I'm home sick for 3 days, living on Ny-Quil,  
watching "Eclipse" over and over so I can write a review.   
Thanks to Audra for a rapid and insightful beta. She really deserves  
co-author credit on this, as much as she tightened up all the sucky spots.  
\--Kellie  
  
Disclaimers: Benton Fraser & Ray Kowalski belong to Alliance, goldarnit,  
no matter how much I wish otherwise.  
Rated R for naughty thoughts  
of boys with boys and boys with toys.  
  


* * *

  
****

  
Snoop  
c. 2000  
Kellie Matthews  


  
        Benton Fraser feels relieved  
when Ray's landlady finally leaves him alone in the apartment. Well,  
alone save for Diefenbaker, who is just as curious as he is. It's only  
been a short time but he feels an odd sense of frustration, an inability  
to get a handle on Ray. He feels he ought to know more, understand more,  
and he doesn't, although they work extremely well together. One thing  
he has noticed, because wolves, even half-wolves, are not known for their  
subtlety, is that Dief seems to be very fond of his new partner. He's  
exhibited what is really a startling degree of affection, far more than  
he ever exhibited with Ray Vecchio. And despite a rocky start, Ray .  
. . this new Ray . . . seems to like Diefenbaker as well, also unlike  
Ray Vecchio, who at best tolerated his companion. Fraser finds the difference  
to be surprisingly . . . pleasurable.  
        He  
stands for a moment in the middle of the living room, not certain what  
to do next. He knows he should leave: time is of the essence and he's  
discovered the information he came for. But . . . his eyes are drawn  
again to the photograph on the roll-top desk. The one of Ray and an  
attractive blonde woman. He frowns, wondering who she is, feeling an  
odd twinge of dislike for this woman he's never met, who has never done  
anything to earn his disfavor. Yet there it is. Undeniable. Sister?  
No, there's an intimacy to the pose that seems to preclude that, and  
apart from a similarity in coloring she and Ray look nothing alike.  
        That narrows the possibilities  
to girlfriend... or wife. He doesn't think it's the latter, though.  
He's overheard Ray asking some of the women at the 27th if  
they would like to go out, and he knows with an inner unshakeable conviction  
that Ray is not the type to cheat. He's not sure how he knows that, or  
why, when admittedly he knows very little about this man but there's  
no dislodging that certainty and he's not inclined to try. Of course,  
Ray's dating game could simply be part of his cover. Ray Vecchio had  
certainly considered himself a ladies man. What he doesn't understand  
is why Ray isn't more successful in his attempts. If he were a woman  
. . . but he isn't.  
        His  
frown deepens, and he finds himself in the bedroom, at the closet, which  
is open, relieving him of the necessity of having to open it himself.  
He catalogues the contents quickly, mostly jeans, khakis, twills, a few  
sweaters, one good suit in an unusual olive shade, a gray linen blazer,  
a charcoal blazer, shirts of various types, bowling, polo, even a few  
dress shirts, one in a rich teal that he suspects would bring out the  
golden flecks in Ray's blue eyes. This Ray's wardrobe is not extensive,  
also unlike Ray Vecchio's. He moves to the bureau, its top scratched  
and scarred from a thousand nights of having a police officer's accoutrements  
tossed casually down on its surface as Ray undresses after work. _Undresses_.  
        He swallows, once  
more disconcerted by his reaction to this man. He's been drawn to men  
before, been aware of this facet of his personality, both as a youth  
on the brink of manhood, and later, as a man. Mark, Eric, he had felt  
a version of this with both of them. But not like this, never before  
so strong, so . . . demanding. His gaze flickers toward the bed, and  
he drags it back. There's nothing there that will assist him in his  
quest. He avoids looking at himself in the mirror over the dresser,  
not really wanting to see himself here, see the expression he suspects  
his face holds.  
        He  
quietly opens a drawer, discovers it full of t-shirts, multi-hued, haphazardly  
pushed in with little care, some folded, some. . . wadded. Another drawer  
reveals sweatshirts, sweatpants. A third holds socks-- unpaired and  
random. A fourth reveals a jumble of underwear, a startling variety,  
everything from boxers to boxer-briefs to briefs to bikinis, in all manner  
of colors, and fabrics as well. He wonders briefly what that might mean  
about Ray, psychologically speaking. He thinks of his own wardrobe,  
everything neatly sorted and folded, his own underclothes, t-shirts,  
tanks, boxers, nearly all of it white cotton, the occasional gray, or  
blue. Dull. Clearly, Ray is not dull. He could not, Fraser suspects,  
be dull if he tried.  
        He  
sighs and pushes the drawer closed, turns, only to have the bed catch  
his eye again. Rumpled, unmade, he imagines Ray there, tangled in the  
patterned sheets, pale skin lightly flushed. . . no. Resolutely he moves  
to the bathroom, finds a prescription for sedatives in the medicine chest,  
an old one, only two pills used. It's out of date, Ray should throw  
it away. He wonders if it was kept deliberately, or just forgotten.  
Aspirin and ibuprofen. A neatly rolled Ace bandage with a safety-pin  
instead of a clip. Band-aids. Antibiotic ointment. Rubbing alcohol  
and witch hazel. Deodorant. A full bottle of after-shave, its top and  
shoulders dusty. Razor. Shaving cream. A tube of hair-gel. The usual  
sort of things one expects to find in a medicine cabinet. Nothing tremendously  
revealing.  
        Moving  
on to the kitchen, Fraser finds himself bemused by the pattern of Ray's  
china, which is clearly intended to look like the hide of Holstein cow.  
Rather peculiar. Oddly, the kitchen is meticulously organized, while  
very little else in the house is. Ray has a good assortment of cookware,  
of spices, even of cookbooks. Yet a glance into the refrigerator reveals  
mostly take-out food containers. He wonders why, when it's clear that  
Ray knows how to cook, he obviously rarely does. All in all, the apartment  
doesn't reveal much, other than that Ray is not a particularly good housekeeper,  
which fact does not surprise him in the least, considering the usual  
state of Ray's desk.  
        One  
thing is clear, whomever the woman in the photograph is, she doesn't  
live here with him, nor does she visit frequently enough to have left  
spoor. There is no sign of a woman's touch here, nothing in the closet,  
in the drawers, in the bathroom, all places where he would have expected  
to find traces, were there any to find. But that does not rule out less  
frequent . . . visits. He frowns, takes a step toward the bedroom.  
Stops.  
        He shouldn't  
do this. It's bad enough that he's invaded Ray's privacy to this extent.  
What he's considering is completely unethical. All the rest of his investigations  
he can excuse, however distantly, under a genuine need to know. This  
he can't. But this need is stronger than the other. Deeper ... Personal.  
He moves slowly toward the bedroom again, glancing around as if to be  
sure he's not observed. Dief watches him, neutral, neither encouraging  
nor discouraging. He has to make this decision on his own.  
        He  
stands beside the bed, looking at the nightstand. A single drawer, uninvestigated.  
He sits, on the edge of the bed, telling himself not to. He knows better.  
He should not. Unconscionable, unforgivable . . . irresistible. His  
baser nature prevails. He has to. His fingers seem to tingle as he  
eases the drawer open, just enough to see what he half expected to see.  
        He reaches in, removes  
the open box. Crown. 12, natural latex rubber . . . he slides his fingers  
into the box, pulls out the contents, counts. His eyebrows lift, and  
something eases inside his chest, though he realizes it's silly to try  
to make anything out of the fact that so few have been used. The box  
could have been purchased as recently as the previous day. He reaches  
to put it back, and his fingers encounter something that feels startlingly  
like flesh. He tugs open the drawer further, and his jaw drops. Now  
this is . . . revealing. Extremely so.  
        He  
picks it up. It's translucent, the color is slightly disconcerting--  
a rather lurid shade of magenta. But its weight, and the naturalness  
of its size, and contours and . . . feel surprises him. It yields slightly  
to the pressure of his fingers, much like his own sudden erection might,  
were he to touch it now. A little shiver goes through him as he imagines  
just what Ray might do with this, and he has to shift to accommodate  
his the now-uncomfortable weight between his thighs. The picture is  
far too vivid. . . naked, straining, sweating, and so beautiful, so .  
. . vibrant. He has to shake his head to rid himself of the vision.  
        He tells himself again  
that it's useless to extrapolate. There are many reasons why a man might  
keep such an object in a drawer next to his bed, many if not most of  
which could involve the woman in the photograph. But he has. . . a  
hunch. His lips are dry, and he moistens them, and is suddenly tempted  
to taste. Closing his eyes, he lets his tongue slide up the underside,  
much as he would like to do to . . . or for . . . or with. . . the object's  
owner. Disappointingly he tastes nothing but latex and a hint of detergent.  
He sighs, and opens the drawer wider so he can carefully return both  
his finds to their original places, and when he does, he notes that there  
is also a bottle of lubricant, and smiles. His hunch is suddenly much  
stronger.  
        He is,  
by nature, patient. He's good at waiting. With just a trace of hope,  
he can wait for a very long time. Perhaps someday he'll discover if  
he is as good at imagining as he is at waiting.

*** finis ***  


* * *

  
Feedback to: Kellie  



End file.
